Got a Light?
by canadianstuck
Summary: 50s/60s AU-Karkat just wants to be left alone and read his books. Dave's a freethinking Beat poet, and he has other ideas. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

The library is never really closed. A word with the night watchman, maybe offer him one of your smokes, and he lets nearly anyone in. Over time, this leads to a motley assortment of people who gather to read after dark. Those with day jobs, those who wanted to read the pornos, those who just wanted to avoid people, hiding in a corner with a book that crumbles to dust when you brush the pages too hard.

Karkat is one of these. He loves the aged books, the ones that have survived the decades, but the noise and abuse of those he passes on the street drives him away. Only after several people mention the library does he go, and he is nervous about the whole thing. Carrying a pack of cigarettes with him, he holds one unlit in the corner of his mouth, fingers drumming against his hip. The night watchman gives him a cursory glance and takes the cigarette he's offered, and the world of the library is opened to Karkat.

His days change. He sleeps late, staying in his rooms until nightfall, when he slips to the library and reads. Summer passes, the fine nights fading to crisp autumn, before at last dissolving into the snow covered streets of the bleak winter.

For weeks now, the papers have been screaming about the new movement sweeping the nation. The men—and occasionally woman—who fight for new rights, for open mindedness on a scale the country has never seen before. ANARCHISTS the headlines yell, with DESTRUCTION OF SOCIAL ORDER AND DECENCY printed in slightly smaller letters underneath. Normal people, good people, should have nothing to do with them. Karkat isn't sure if that includes him, but he keeps his head down, avoiding the piercing gazes of the dangerous people, who treat the night like it was their own personal domain.

All at once, it changes.

On his way to the library, to the damp smell of musty books, Karkat glances up. He isn't sure why he does at first—it's something he almost never does. He prefers to keep his head down, to stay out of trouble. The unlit cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, the taste of tobacco skating over his tongue. Finally, he sees what drew his attention. A group of the radicals, the free-thinkers, are standing around a fire contained in a rusted oil drum. The flames give them a surreal quality, almost like statues that someone brought to life.

"Got a light?" someone asks.

Karkat jumps in surprise. The speaker is taller than him, but rail thin, hair so blond it seems to glow in the firelight. He has a cigarette in his fingers, twitching a little as he waits for his fix. Unsure of what to do, Karkat just shakes his head and hurries on, disappearing into the library. He can't keep his mind on the book he's working on—an old western by the name of Wildfire. Every few words, the page blurs into an image of the young man holding his cigarette. There's no reason for that—he's just another anarchist, looking to get his nicotine fix. Nothing Karkat should worry about.

Finally, just as he's about to leave the library, the first light of false dawn staining the sky, he understands why he can't get the guy out of his mind. There must have been five or six guys around that oil can, and each one had a cigarette going, curls of white smoke mixing with the black that lifted off the fire.

Why didn't the guy just ask one of them for a light?

The question bothers Karkat as he walks home in the pre-dawn light, the time of day that belongs to no one but him. The Beats have returned home to sleep off a night of their radical thinking, and the decent people have yet to wake and dress themselves in ties and shiny shoes and walk to work. The only people who are out now are the addicts just coming down from a high and the prostitutes, looking for one last customer before the police come out to stop them.

Karkat is alone, the recluse who comes out of hiding only to see the light of dawn before everyone else, as if the sun rises just for him. Another day, another dream that only he can see.

Just one more nicotine fix.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been three days since Karkat went outside. He spent two days throwing up, and now a wracking cough has settled deep in his lungs. The cold air hurts his sore throat, and the smoke that lingers in the air burns. He feels a little better as the day goes on, so he decides it's time to head to his beloved library.

The night air is crisp and cool, the most recent cold snap a fading memory, although no one would call it warm. He pulls a scarf on, keeping his eyes on the paving stones. He's almost at the library when a half remembered voice says, "Hey. Got a light?"

He isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't that.

Or maybe it was, because he pulls a lighter from his pocket, almost mesmerized by the motion. "Yeah," he croaks from behind the scarf, offering it to the blond guy, who leans down with casual grace and deftly lights the cigarette, the tip glowing red in the night.

"You haven't been around for a couple days."

The comment is so unexpected Karkat doesn't know how to reply. Has the guy been stalking him or something? "Fuck, man. I was sick," he manages after a minute. "How did you know? You fucking stalking me?"

The guy takes a long drag on his cigarette. "Strider," he says after a minute.

"…What?"

"Dave Strider." He sucks on the cigarette again, white smoke curling up from his mouth as he breathes into the chill night.

It takes Karkat a moment to remember he has a voice. Once he does, he introduces himself.

"Thanks for the light, Vantas," Dave says, turning back to his group that surround the oil drum.

The conversation is clearly over, and Karkat spends the rest of the night wondering what he should have said next.


	3. Chapter 3

Almost a week passes. Every night, Dave asks for a light when Karkat walks by. There's no conversation to interrupt the routine, beyond asking for a light and offering the lighter, but there's a second subtler conversation, one that's spoken in hesitations and the brush of knuckle against knuckle as Dave lights his cigarettes. It's a thousand words they never speak, but a conversation nonetheless.

Finally, there's a night where Dave isn't waiting for a light. Karkat doesn't know why, but he's upset. He hasn't had friends in years, and this is the reason. They all run away. He has his books and his cigarettes and his sunrises, and he needs nothing beyond that. Not even someone who asks for a light every night.

Inside, the smell of old books and sweet decay fills the air with a comforting scent. It's the scent of his life—comforting and yet somehow sad, filled with neglect. He wanders up to the corner where he reads, the spot where the oldest books reside. Without really caring, he picks one up, opens it to a random page, and starts reading. The story doesn't make any sense, not without the beginning, but it'll do to keep his mind off things.

Eight pages in, he's about to give up when he hears a familiar voice. "Hey. Got a light?" Karkat jumps, crumbling the corner of the page he's reading. He's too shaken to reply—he can only stare at Dave as he emerges from the shadows of the shelves.

"You can't smoke in here," he says after a while, totally at a loss.

"Well, fuck." Dave smiles a little, holding the unlit cigarette in his mouth. "Spoken like a true citizen of the law."

"Spoken like a true anarchist," Karkat retorts.

"You've been reading too many newspapers. We don't want to destroy the social order, we want to expand it."

Karkat nods, searching for what to say next. "Your poetry, things like that. I went to a reading once."

"I thought you didn't get out much."

"I don't."

There's a second, longer silence. Dave chews on his cigarette, nodding when wordless thanks when Karkat reluctantly hands him his lighter. There's a snap, a breath of blue flame, and a curl of sharp tobacco smoke. That must be all he wants, Karkat thinks. That's all I am here. Just another way for him to get his nicotine fix.

The cigarette burns down, scattering ash on the scorch marked table. Karkat watches sullenly, trying to resist his own sudden craving. Dave eyes him and then starts speaking in a soft voice.

"Watching boxcars rattle  
Down dusty tracks,  
To legions of places,  
Long forgotten by human hearts,

We dreamed,  
Whispered, screamed, kicked, danced,  
About angels,  
And inked feathers,

Searching for indomitable truths,  
In junkyards of salted bones,  
Building cairns,  
To science and religion,

Asking shadows,  
For directions to nowhere,  
Drawing maps from fired ashes,  
To show those on our left,

Reliving the multitude of pasts,  
The sorrows, stupidities, and elations,  
In ships sinking,  
Up towards revelation,

Seeking lost souls,  
To pull from the ether,  
Forming ink and paper bodies,  
Of chained-in freedom,

Spying on beasts and demons,  
Spinning cobwebs,  
Of curious hate and half truths,  
Meant to break the cogs of the machine,

Rattling ever onward,  
Towards a paper town,  
Burning from falling stars,  
And mindless intent,

Wondering if the boxcars,  
Could restore ourselves,  
Ensnare the world in our minds,  
And set us free."

The words take on a musical quality, each soft and spoken with care.

"Does that sound like an anarchist?" Dave asks once the silence stretches out.

Karkat can only manage to shake his head in amazement.

"Exactly," Dave says, sounding satisfied.


	4. Chapter 4

There's a moment of silence, and Karkat pulls out his worn cigarette case, drawing one out with shaking fingers. "Got a light?" he says, voice a little unsteady.

Dave seems to know exactly what he's asking. He pulls out a lighter, holding it to the cigarette, but he doesn't move away once it's lit. The two of them are inches apart, white smoke mixing with old books to form a cloud they can't escape.

Not that either of them wants to.

It's Karkat who makes the first move in the end. He sets the cigarette on the table, where it burns out, a scorch mark scored into the wood. The red gleam of it goes at as he leans forward and kisses Dave, a nervous twitch that tastes like smoke and ash and sweat.

Outside, the first light of pre-dawn streaks the sky.

The following night, Karkat is walking to the library. He looks, for the first time, not at the cobblestones, but the buildings that rise up from them. The walk is quiet, only the free-thinkers standing around their oil drums and sitting in their coffee shops. He's nearly at the library when a familiar voice makes him smile.

"Hey. Got a light?"

**A/N - Thanks so much for reading, guys! It was a really fun story to write :D**


End file.
